Cooking Directions
by OnnaMurcielago666
Summary: Ravioli plus England equals Inedible Mass-Desruction, a broken microwave, and deadened tastebuds. Sliced fingers and snapped tempers are possible as well, and a mistreated ravioli can.


Arthur pulled a heavy can out of the cupboard, eying the appealing picture on it with a rumbling stomach in the background. He looked over at Alfred, who sat eagerly at the island on one of Arthur's new barstools. The American had been invited over for the weekend to catch up for old time's sake, and now Arthur had gotten himself into making the nation a bowl of ravioli. Although he had never taken to canned foods like these, Arthur knew that Alfred loved very exclusively the Chef Boyardee Ravioli, so he'd gone out a day before and bought some for him. He nodded appreciatively, turning to the electric can opener he'd pulled out before and stuffing the can beneath the blade.

"So how are things going with Obama?" Arthur said loudly over the noisy whirr of the machine. The motor of the device worked busily, but all he did was tear the paper on the outside.

"Good!" Alfred said loudly, just naturally noisy. "The dude's totally cool!" Arthur snarled under his breath as America went on about his current president. He jammed the little blade down into the can and pressing the open switch again; the appliance made a horrible grating noise.

"Oh **bollocks**!"

"You okay?" America called, "Need help?"

Arthur looked up with a sunny expression and shook his head. "No! Everything's wizard!" The Brit ripped the can away from the machine, hearing the swiveling arm for the blade tear away with a snap of plastic. He snuffed determinedly and glared at the can, realizing that the top wasn't opening due to the pull tab holding the blade back. He swore angrily, forgetting America for a moment, and wedged his finger under the tab to lift it and peel the metal lid back.

"BLOODY HELL!" Arthur shouted as he sliced is finger on the newly opened lid. He'd pulled the little metal disc off his finger, sliding the other finger along the edge and slicing open the rough pad of his thumb. "I-! UGH-! URGH!" He stomped one foot, clutching the bleeding appendage to his chest as he shouted profanities, glaring at the can on the counter.

Picking it up as gingerly as he could, Arthur nudged the trash can open with his foot and did what any sensible person would do; teach the lid a lesson. The battle between the British ex-pirate and the ravioli can was now no longer about America; this was war in Arthur's mind. Winding up, Arthur threw the lid into the trash with such force that shook the whole bin.

_Don't come out until you've thought about what you've done._ Arthur growled in his head, running his bleeding finger under the tap and hissing at the needles jabbing into the cut. He tossed his bangs out of his eyes, growling under his breath about the audacity of the common canned ravioli.

Turning his eyes back to the can, Arthur squinted at the small print until he could read it: HEAT ON STOVE. He scoffed confidently and shook his head, eventually full-out laughing at the portion of directions regarding the stove in the corner of his kitchen.

Sitting at the counter, Alfred felt a little worried at the hysteric edge to the Brit's laughter. He watched nervously as Arthur pulled a big plastic bowl out of the cupboard, tipping the can entirely upside down and shaking it harshly to try and dislodge the clump of canned food from within.

"Arthur, maybe I should-" America tried to rise form the barstool on the opposite side of the counter, but Arthur shot him a deadly look.

"No!" he barked, "I conquered over **half** the world! I can make you a lousy bowl of bloody ravioli!"

_That's what I'm afraid of…_ Alfred thought as he slowly sat back down in his chair. "Okay…" Alfred regarded the cold glob of ravioli that emerged from the can and felt his empty, rumbling stomach shrivel up to the size of a pea; he'd lost his appetite.

Arthur angrily punched the allotted time into the keypad of the microwave, growling when the appliance brought up a whole bunch of unneeded options for him. Alfred tensed, but his brotherly figure managed not to mortally wound the microwave or himself in the process of starting the thing. Arthur brushed his bangs back from his heavy-set green eyes, sighing, and smiled at America.

"Victoria still goes on about you, Alfred."

"Granny? Seriously?" Alfred chuckled, "Aww man, I have a bad feeling about this…"

"Says you're her 'delinquent nephew'!" Arthur said, imitating an old woman's voice. "'Always getting into more than he can handle! How **does** his brother cope?'" Alfred pouted as Arthur laughed, standing straight out of his hunched position to imitate the queen. "Oh, don't fret, love. She looks forward to your next visit."

Alfred opened his mouth to respond, but the microwave beeped, signaling the end of his tongue, and Arthur cheerily pulled the bowl from the microwave. What Alfred saw of the inside of the microwave was a red-coated mess, much like a battlefield, and the bowl was bubbling at the edges when Arthur set it in front of him.

"Enjoy! Ravioli!" Alfred took the spoon tentatively and stirred the ''food'' until it looked to be lukewarm throughout. He swallowed nervously, trying not to look unwilling under Arthur's eager stare, and took a bite, averting his eyes from the microwave.  
><em>I'm just going to ignore the microwave...<em> he thought quickly, feeling his tongue go numb from all the years of eating Arthur's cooking. Alfred never knew how, but he could eat almost anything the Brit made, excluding his rock-hard scones._ for, like, __**ever**__._


End file.
